His first salient thought is that Cortana is a beast. The little cell she'd sequestered Delta in holds true even after the turning, keeping York viscerally aware of his own aches, pains, and mental isolation and just as relieved to be able to think without an audience. Little of it's kind. Less is coherent. All lizard brain aches and agreement so long as relief is offered, the robotic surgery suite an odd point of familiarity in the middle of a fucking hellish experience.

Moving feels like a shit idea but- as soon as he can? He reaches back to rest a hand on his implant, eyes in the middle distance. No wires. No veins.

Just the usual hard patch of the chip and nothing else out of the ordinary. If it weren't for the bone deep ache and new bitching scars he'd think it'd never happened. Just a very real, very weird, very bloody hallucination. For the moment he's...alright. If. Rattled. He is by turns attempting humor with a rough rasp of voice or dozing, trying to put it all behind him and focus on other people from where he's laid out prone on the bed. At least until Delta attempts some manner of conversation through his cage- his reaction is immediate and uncharacteristic as it is instinctive-

He rips Delta's chip from its housing, slams it into a storage slot on his bracer, and throws that across the room to the nearest empty bed.

Pissed- yes. Betrayed? Incredibly. So callous as to want to destroy Delta? Never.

But he's done with the voice in his head and that formerly soothing wash of green.